Unfinished Beginnings: Harry Potter
by Asviloka
Summary: A collection of stories which I started but did not finish. Free to use if they happen to spark your own inspiration.
1. Born to Darkness

Unfinished Beginnings

 _Introduction:_

 _This is the collecting place for stories I started but didn't have the time to finish. Some will be short, others quite long. I may add to certain chapters without notice. If anyone wants to borrow any of the premises, setup, characters, etc for their own writing, you are more than welcome to do so. I'd love it if you could show me what you've done if you do. I am a huge believer in fractal creativity: give a dozen writers the exact same premise and starting point, and you'll end up with a dozen completely different stories.  
_

* * *

 **Born to Darkness**

 _OC-centric dark AU._

* * *

I never met my mother. She's been kept at the Ministry since her youth. Held securely in the Department of Purity, which is also where I was born. I went back to visit her, once, when I was a child and didn't understand the difference between living and existing.

I never knew who my father was. I didn't know if he was alive or dead, if he was just another number in the DoP or an actual living wizard. How did he and my mother end up paired?

I couldn't say why I cared about them, it's not like either of them gave me any reason to. But somehow, I felt emptier without the knowledge. Even as I wished I'd never learned my mother's fate, I knew I'd never have been content to remain in ignorance.

My name is Persephone. I am a witch, currently age seventeen, attending Hogwarts School of Magic along with my brother. Sebastian is almost a year younger than me, but we're in the same year. My favourite class is Debate, and my least favourite is Muggle Studies. Bas is very into Arithmancy and Greater Arcana, but I've always preferred words to numbers and diagrams. Bas hates Debate, he likes things simple and straightforward. He believes that it should be possible to analyze everything in life.

I'm more a believer in spontaneity, in making choices as we go. I hate rigid schedules, and am pretty much always a minute or two late for any class but Debate or Charms. Charms is definitely my second favourite class, and the only one taught by a sub-human. Professor Flitwick is half-goblin if rumor is to be believed, and I think in this case it's safe to do so.

Debate was taught by Professor Snape, a tall dark man with the most perfect lack of sympathy ever. He didn't know the meaning of 'going easy' and made sure that none of us would make any such mistakes either.

"The rest of the world hates us," he explained as we entered our OWL studies in third year. "They don't understand the society Lord Voldemort is trying to build here, don't respect the change that must occur for that transition. They fight, they argue, they resist. And they believe, down to their deepest hearts, that they are right. This class's aim is to prepare you to prove them wrong."

It was an inspiring speech, as far as speeches go. Brief, to the point, and explained enough of what we had to know. Now, entering my second year of post-NEWT classes, I'd reached the point where I could match any mudblood or traitor's argument point for point without hesitation. If rumor was to be believed, we'd have our first outing this year. Our first chance to try our skills on the unconvinced populace.

There were hundreds of small pockets of resistance. We heard about them sometimes, either in the newspapers or on the wireless or, more rarely, whispered from person to person. A few attendees had family who rebelled. That was less comfortable still. Those students generally kept to themselves, quietly doing their best to prove themselves more worthy of their birth than their traitor parents.

I occasionally wondered if my father might be a rebel, but then how would he have ended up having me? No one entered or left the Department of Purity without serious security clearance. My own visit was supervised by Headmaster Riddle herself, by special permission.

"Seph, there you are!"

Bas tackled me from behind, but his voice was forewarning enough. I tensed against his weight - considerably less than mine, as he was shorter and skinnier than I - and only staggered slightly.

"Careful, Bas," I said, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. He was clinging to my back, I could feel him hanging there. Throwing off my balance as I took another step forward. "You wouldn't want us to show up for our first Potions lesson with bruises from toppling down the stairs."

He laughed, dropping to the ground, and jogged up beside me. "Nonsense. The stairs are all the way over there."

We started down them, paces matching each other easily. "You are so weird," I told him.

He grinned, I could hear it in his voice. "Not as weird as both of us together."

"We have nothing in common," I said.

"Nothing but love and craziness," he agreed easily.

"Where have you been all summer?" I asked. "I haven't seen you in months."

I turned toward him just in time to see a calculating look slide off his face, to be replaced by a cocky grin.

"Field trip," he said loftily. "Instead of visiting museums, _I_ took a trip out of the country."

"You never did," I retorted, laughing. "Probably just spent the vacation in a basement running numbers for your latest scheme."

"I do not scheme," he said, still in that lofty tone. "I _plan_. And do so quite well."

I smacked him, playfully irritated. "Spill. What were you _really_ doing?"

He grinned, even as he rubbed at his arm. "Oh, I wasn't making it up. I really did leave the country."

"No way," I said, voice caught between a whisper and a shriek, coming out rather husky and squeaky instead. "Where? How? What were you doing? That's so not fair. I don't get to leave until next year at the soonest."

He turned around, skipping backward down the stairs ahead of me so I could see his gloating expression clearly. I winced. I hated it when he did that. At least we were only a few steps from the bottom.

"France," he declared, after a suitable pause for dramatic effect. "I've been to our sister-school, Bowbattun's."

I winced. "That's not how you say it, it's-"

He held up a hand, tripping onto the landing in a way that almost looked planned. "No, I'm the one who went there, I _know_."

"You think you do," I said, then let the topic drop. It wasn't nearly as important. "What were you doing there?"

"Translation," he said with obvious relish, still skipping backwards as we traversed the hall. "They found an archive of student texts from Before, and thought it would be good to give their seventh- and eighth-years some practice with unfamiliar spells."

"If I'd known Arithmancy would get me to France," I muttered, but Bas shook his head.

"Ancient Runes, if you'll believe it."

"What students write in ancient runes?" I asked.

"These ones. A whole year full of them. It was while they had a replacement teacher, though, so it may have been an assignment."

"Find anything interesting?" I asked, dropping my voice to a whisper. We were nearing the Green common room, and they all had proper ancestry and names that went back centuries. To them, people like Bas and I were worth nothing except as potential partners should they be given the choice. Even a Nameless like us would be better than a traitor from the DoP, but unless they were actively looking for a mate they'd treat us as the lowborn scum we were.

"I'll tell you later," Bas said, lowering his own voice. His grin faded. "It was a different world back then, Seph. One generation, and everything changed."

"Of course," I replied, beaming. "Lord Voldemort brought us a new era of-"

But Bas shook his head, and the look of absolute _seriousness_ on his face made my protests die in my throat.

"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice barely even a whisper. "Bas. . ."

"Not here," he said. "Not now. Later, when we're back in Blue."

I nodded, and he resumed his easy smile. No one but me would have noticed how strained it suddenly appeared.

There was no more time for talk, the Potions classroom was just around the corner, and a trio of Reds were waiting politely for us to enter. A daring Yellow pushed past us, as though worried he'd be late, but faltered when I cleared my throat loudly. He hesitated - Ambrose, that was his name. Thought he was important because he was a Smith. But the rules were clear - Greens first, then Blues, and only then Yellows and Reds.

Then Ambrose's eyes widened and he flattened himself against the wall. I didn't need to glance behind me to know why. The Reds standing beside the door flinched back, take several steps away so that they weren't even breathing near the door.

Bas and I stepped aside hastily, with less dignity than usual. A blond Green strode past us, flanked by his two friends. Malfoy and entourage. His nearest thug jostled into me, his hand 'accidentally' trailing across my chest. He gave me a wink and a leer as he passed, the big ugly brute. But he was Green, so he'd get away with it even if I tried to make a fuss. And he was with Lord Malfoy's heir, so doubly foolish to expect reparations.

But I still felt my cheeks burning with shame and repressed fury, even though I knew I was beneath their notice and he was complimenting me by even noticing my existence. He probably didn't mean anything more by it, but it still made my skin crawl to think about it.

Such are the perils of being a Blue. Even though I was just Persephone Nameless, Blue is next only to Green. I had a better chance than most of having children who would surpass my station.

And much worse chances of having any say whatsoever in who those children became.

* * *

 _Notes :_

 _This is one of my oldest HP fic ideas, and potentially one of the darkest and most disturbing._ _Basically, it revolves around Voldemort's excessive use of Dementors to control the populace, keeping Kissed wizards and witches of sufficient power or lineage in his Department of Purity to use as breeding stock._ _Sebastian has begun to question the current regime, while Persephone remains convinced of its value. He tries to gradually show her what's wrong with Voldemort's rule, while she tries to rationalize away his seeming rebellion so she doesn't have to turn in her own brother.  
_

 _This is one of those stories where I had a vividly clear premise and beginning, but no middle or ending. I could probably have come up with something in time, but it's not high enough priority for me to tackle just now._


	2. Last World Line But One

Unfinished Beginnings

* * *

 **Last World Line But One**

 _Ron-centric AU_

* * *

 _'Terrible things happen to wizards who meddle with time.'_  
 _-Emblazoned upon the lintel of the Room of Time, Department of Mysteries._

"It's not strictly legal, but Professor McGonagall convinced the Ministry to allow an exception. It's how I've been getting to lessons all year."

Hermione's voice woke him, but he didn't move. Everything was warm and hazy, comfortable. If he just lay here a bit longer, he'd drop off again.

"But how does that help Sirius?" Harry's voice was hushed, easier to ignore. He continued talking, but the sound slipped past without leaving an impression.

"Three turns, he said?" Hermione's voice intruded, and Ron opened his eyes, prepared to tell her off for being too loud. But what he saw was so shocking his words died unsaid.

Hermione was looping a sparkling chain over Harry's neck, a glittering hourglass suspended halfway down its length.

Ron had heard about Time Turners from his dad, the Ministry had dealt with a few Time-related disasters recently. Strangers from 'the future' showing up and trying to change things, people from the past popping up to 'watch the fun'. It was dangerous, chaotic, and terribly unsafe.

"Don't," Ron tried to call, but his throat was so dry he made hardly a sound.

And then it was too late. Hermione gave the little hourglass three quick flips, and the pair of them vanished.

Ron sat up, sleep forgotten in a rush of panic. What could he do? Call for help?

"Help," he croaked, but his voice barely reached his own ears. He looked around, grabbed the glass of water by his bed and swallowed it. He couldn't walk, his leg was still painful and he'd been instructed most strictly not to move it, but he needed someone.

"HELP!" Ron shouted, and there was a sound of a key turning in the lock.

Headmaster Dumbledore stuck his head in. "Yes, Mr. Weasley? What is it?"

"Headmaster, it's Harry and Hermione. They disappeared. Right in front of me. I think they. . . I think they stole a Time Turner."

Headmaster Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Did they, now?"

"You have to take this seriously, Headmaster!" Ron exclaimed, frantic now. "Get word to my dad, or anyone at the Ministry. Maybe they can be retrieved, they didn't go far. I think." _I hope._

"I'm sure your friends will be just fine," Headmaster Dumbledore said. He gave Ron a kind smile, then withdrew.

"Wait, headmaster!"

But Headmaster Dumbledore didn't open the door again, and Ron's continued shouting only wore out his voice.

He lay there alone, waiting, hoping. There was a commotion in the halls, and he heard the headmaster's voice shouting, and the raised voice of someone Ron recognized as the Minister for Magic.

He heard Sirius Black mentioned several times, then the argument passed far enough away from the hospital wing doors that he could no longer make out any words.

His leg burned with pain. His mind raced with worry. And time dragged slowly by.

Madame Pomfrey bustled in, replaced his water, and inquired after his condition.

He answered her questions, then asked her what was happening. "I heard shouting in the hall."

"Never you mind," she said briskly, a frown creasing her face. "Professor Dumbledore will take care of things."

"Is Sirius going back to Azkaban?" Ron asked. "Because he's innocent."

Madame Pomfrey didn't answer, but her expression told Ron the answer.

"It's too late," he whispered, feeling faint. "Isn't it?"

"You shouldn't be worrying about such things," she replied, bringing a flask out from one of her many pockets and pouring half its contents into Ron's glass of water. It turned a pale green colour, which shimmered pink in the light. "Drink that if you're having trouble resting."

And she hurried out, ignoring his attempts to question her further.

* * *

 _Notes : _

_This was inspired by the Steins;Gate method of time travel. Basically, in this world line, Harry and Hermione use a time turner and disappear, never to be seen again. From their perspective, in the parallel world, they do canon things and everyone is fine. But in the line they left behind, there's no Harry, no Hermione, Sirius is Kissed, and Ron left alone in the hospital wing while his two best friends vanish forever._

 _From that point on, I hadn't decided on whether it should be a Neville-BWL type or just leave them without their prophesied savior at all. It could go any number of directions._


	3. The Serpent (1 of 2)

Unfinished Beginnings

* * *

 **The Serpent**

(1 of 2)

 _A Dark!Harry origin story_

* * *

There are many lives in which Harry Potter lived well, became a hero, and saved the world from evil.

There are many lives in which Harry Potter was hurt, beaten, downtrodden, and eventually killed.

There are several lives in which Harry Potter was seduced away from his principles, and his protectiveness and ingenuity turned to service darkness instead.

There are several lives in which Harry Potter became one of the most powerful wizards in history, crushing all opposition on whatever path he undertook.

There are some lives in which Harry Potter failed, only to miraculously rise to victory in the end.

There are some lives in which Harry Potter rose to power to reshape the world as he desired, only to be cast down by his adversaries.

There are a few lives in which Harry Potter decided his time would be better served under the rule of another, where he took a passive approach to life.

There are a few lives where Harry Potter learned dark truths about those he trusted, and was embittered and disillusioned by the perceived betrayal.

And then there's this life.

You probably know how the story begins. A lonely child, beaten and berated for what he is, unloved, unwanted. Magically strong, but suppressed, desperate for anyone to care about him. And then one day a strange man knocked on the door, told him the truth about everything he's ever wondered about, and took him off to a magical land where he was famous and rich and revered.

Who the man is varies. Sometimes it's a potions master, sometimes it's a professor, often it's a friendly giant, occasionally it's a goblin or a house-elf. This time, however, it was only an apparition, and it didn't knock on the door so much as float through it to stand beside the lonely boy with a gentle, fatherly smile.

The suppressed rage and dark power hiding behind those eyes was invisible to the child, who knew little enough of silent power and hidden emotion. His relatives were all too open in their hatred and violent tempers.

"Hello, Harry," said the spirit, in a voice like Harry imagined his father might have spoken. "Please don't be frightened. There is much to tell you and not much time to do it in."

Harry nodded. He wasn't afraid. Something within him resonated, told him the spirit meant him no harm.

"I have come a long way, for a long time, to reach you. I need your permission to give you something. It will change everything, but you'll know all the secrets being hidden from you. And all about the power that lives within you, guides you, and protects you."

Harry nodded, and the spirit reached out and touched the center of his forehead with one finger, the lightning-bolt scar with another. Something akin to emotion flared throughout Harry's entire body. Like glowing adrenaline, the way he sometimes felt when running desperately from his violent cousin and felt he could fly away, but stronger and more suffusive. So strong he trembled and tried to pull back.

Though the spirit's touch was light, it was inescapable. Harry found he couldn't move.

And then he was gone, an older and stronger Harry in his place. Not physically - physically, he remained the same scrawny, bruised, underfed child as before - but his mind and memory and, most importantly, magical power were those of a Harry who had lived a lifetime as the pawn of everyone.

A lifetime of being good enough, the only hope, the savior, the Gryffindor. Right up until Voldemort killed Harry Potter in the Forbidden Forest, and he stood in an empty train station.

His wise mentor came to him, gently outlining a beautiful story of love and sacrifice and hope. It had been part of a plan, a desperate gamble, to see that Harry survived long enough to do this one thing - to die and destroy Voldemort's last remaining soul tether with him.

But Harry chose a different way. Instead of acting on his mentor's instruction, instead of leaving Voldemort's mutated soul behind, he forced himself to go to it. Step by cringing step, he approached the horrid, wicked, unnatural thing that hid and screamed and wept.

It repulsed him, made him feel ill as nothing else in this dreamlike place could have, but Harry knelt down by it and tried to speak words of comfort through his disgust. Then, abruptly, it seemed to notice his presence. It shrieked and cackled and laughed and laughed and laughed.

"So, you've heard one version of events already, Harry Potter."

The voice was Tom Riddle's. Harry turned, and there stood the version of Voldemort that he'd seen in a penseive - the red-eyed but handsome man who'd stolen a cup and a locket.

"Why are you here, Tom?" Harry asked.

"Because you are here," Voldemort said, gesturing to the insanely laughing child beneath the bench. "Because you cared enough about me to try and. . . save me." His lips twisted into a sneer, and he turned those words into a mockery.

"You can undo all of this, Tom," Harry said. "You can change. You can be the better man."

Voldemort laughed, high and clear and cold. "You mistake me, Harry Potter," he hissed. "I am not here to save myself. I'm here to show you just how wrong you've been. Just how much trust you've put in the wrong people."

"I know everything now," Harry said defiantly. "I know my mother chose to die to save me. I know I chose to die to save everyone else. You won't be able to hurt them now, not like before, and one of them will finish you off sooner or later."

"If you know so much, then how can you say you had a choice? Everything in your life was orchestrated, and you danced like a puppet along the path laid down for you. Every step of the way, a master manipulator was pulling your strings. Every choice you thought you made was truly no choice at all."

And he began to explain, year by year, event by event, just how much Albus Dumbledore had been interfering in his life. Just how much he'd been preparing Harry for this moment. How it had all been his plan from the beginning, to use Harry's mother's sacrifice to turn Harry into a weapon against Voldemort. One that would never even realize he was being used.

Harry wanted to deny it, wanted Dumbledore to come back and say it wasn't so, but his mentor didn't reappear. As though Harry could only support a single interlocutor at once in this dreamlike place.

"Well, Harry Potter? Do you understand now, how you were systematically destroyed? How the curious, eager child you once were became the stoic, self-sacrificing moron who stands before me now?"

"Love is stronger than greed, than ambition," Harry insisted. He didn't want to listen to this, didn't want to believe it.

"You are a fool, and you are dead. Picture, if you will, what could happen if you chose not to blindly throw yourself at me simply because we were destined to be foes. I have killed you, I have triumphed, the prophecy is fulfilled. If you come back now, it will be a chance for a new beginning. Without animus between us, imagine what we could build."

"You don't build," Harry retorted. "You only destroy."

"Do I? Have I not built loyalty and fear from scum and worthlessness? Have I not built an empire from a decaying institution long past when it should have died? The Ministry was over, Harry Potter. The future is mine, you need only stop resisting and I'll let you share in it. With your life wrapped in mine, and my soul trapped in yours, we would be immortal together forever. Is that not worth living for?"

"If I stay dead, then you won't be immortal for long," Harry said. "If you don't agree to change your ways, then I won't lift a finger to help you. I'll let you die."

"Would you rather we both live? Or both die?"

Harry remembered how he'd felt that past hour, walking willfully to his death. It had burned at him, the years unlived, the life he could have had. Did he really, truly, want to throw that all away?

But he didn't want to save Voldemort, didn't want to work with his enemy to conquer the world. What life would that be? He'd much rather die for a future where his friends and family would live free and safe, than live in a world where he became the evil he'd fought for so long.

"Truly?" Voldemort asked, softly. "I didn't think you had it in you."

Harry stared firmly back at him, his resolve unwavering.

And then the Dark wizard smiled. "What if I told you there was another way? Where you could go back, do things over, without needing to join me here and now? Give you a chance to see for yourself just how much you were controlled from the moment you were born?"

"That's not possible," Harry said.

"Of course not. If you're alive, if you're bound by the ordinary laws of nature. But you and I, here in this place, are beyond such meager concerns. Here, we could be gods."

"You're confusing me with yourself, Tom," Harry retorted. "I never wanted to be a god."

"But that doesn't change the fact that you _could_ be. Here, now, we can do anything."

"I don't believe you," Harry said. "I don't want anything to do with your dark magic. I'm the one giving _you_ a second chance, not the other way around."

Lord Voldemort chuckled. "What _we_ are doing," he said, heavily emphasizing the word we, "is giving each other a second chance. You, in your nobility, refusing to leave me die without offering a chance at redemption. Me, in my power and knowledge, offering you a chance to see the truth before you throw away your life for a lie."

"I don't care," Harry said. "It doesn't matter to me how much I lose, how much I'm hurt. As long as the people I care about are safe, safe from you and your evil followers, I'm willing to make that sacrifice."

"You don't mind being lied to? You don't mind being led along to your death, manipulated every turn, all for a personal battle? You need never have gotten involved in this at all. And now, the prophecy has been fulfilled. There is no further need for us to fight. I have vanquished you, one has died and the other will survive. Stop being a stubborn fool and acknowledge that you and your precious Order are not the only ones who know things!"

Voldemort was beginning to appear angry, but not the snake-like cold anger that Harry was used too. This was a hotter, more natural anger. It fit well with his younger and less mad self. And, though Harry still had no intention of giving into the Dark Lord's manipulations, he began to see how the young Tom Riddle has gotten so far. He did seem reasonable. Harry just needed to find the right argument, the right words, and this could all be put behind them.

Wouldn't it be better for them both to die willingly? Making the world a better place, with Voldemort's soul whole and able to move on to whatever awaited in the afterlife freely?

"Why did you have to do this to begin with?" Harry asked, hoping to reason Voldemort out of his current path. "Why hurt others, why grasp for more power than you'd ever really need?"

Voldemort scoffed. "You, a Gryffindor, would never understand. You hold no greater ambition than glory and adoration. We of Slytherin understand that power and glory are two very different things, and that one need not have one to hold the other."

"But _why_? You were willing to mutilate your very soul, tear it beyond what any mortal should be able to bear, and still keep on fighting and conquering and terrorizing. What point is there in oppressing muggleborns? What purpose to your campaign against muggles? Why?"

Voldemort was silent, and Harry began to wonder if he would never answer, but finally he spoke. Slowly, as though weighing each sentence.

"You didn't live in the world I did. You never experienced the true horror of life among muggles. They are small, weak, foolish. Controlling, fearful, arrogant. Every vice and weakness of wizardkind is exemplified in our lesser companions, in those animals we mate with and allow to dilute the strength of our one true weapon against them. They would kill us all, Harry Potter, without a moment's hesitation. We do not hide because we respect their boundaries, nor because we wish to be left alone. We hide because every witch and wizard knows, deep in their hearts, that it would only take a moment to ignite the muggles against us again. For them to hunt us down, use their creativity to devise ways to hurt us and enslave us and exterminate us until they were dominant over the world and wizardry no more than an historical footnote."

Harry shook his head. "Most of them aren't like that. I've known bad muggles, and I've known good and kind people with no more magic than the bad. You can't judge-"

"I am not talking about _individuals_ ," Voldemort hissed. "I am talking about _masses_. Muggles, as a whole, will destroy us if we do not strike first. I know the abilities they hold, the powers they've created for themselves. They need no magic to fly, to travel across the world in a day, to speak across any distance. They are, in their small way, as mighty as us. And twice as deadly. Where a witch or wizard could incapacitate or stun an enemy, muggles must resort to more violent methods." Voldemort shook his head. "Trust me, Harry Potter. I am the only one willing to do what must be done to save us all from slavery and death."

"And your response to slavery and death," Harry demanded hotly, "is _more_ slavery and death? You say they'd be so cruel to us, and yet you would - unprovoked - enact such strategies against them?"

Voldemort waved a hand, dismissing the concern. "It matters not. They need to be stopped. No one else is strong enough, daring enough, to do what must be done. I will stop this."

"I don't believe it," Harry insisted. "Dumbledore would know, if they were so much of a threat."

Voldemort laughed. "Dumbledore? Dear little Albus with his puppets and his secrets and his alliances. Did you never stop to ask yourself _why_ he never dared face me? Why he took so long to confront Grindelwald? He maintains an appearance of strength, acts as though he's old and wise, but the truth is he's a fraud. Brilliant mind, absolutely mediocre magical strength. He got by his whole life by using shortcuts, manipulation, and clever evasions of any actual conflict. His great 'duel' with Grindelwald was in fact an ambush he prepared over the course of years, springing only when the Dark Lord came close enough to be lured in."

"Now you're just leaping to absurdities," Harry said. "Albus Dumbledore is a great wizard, far more powerful than you."

"Wrong. His mother was a mudblood, and you need look no further to see that she imparted her weak, tainted blood to her eldest son as well as her squib daughter. He was intelligent, yes, but never powerful. Only politically, with words and manipulation, with plans and schemes. He ought to have gone to my house, but sometimes family prejudice overcomes reasonable placements."

Harry thought Voldemort seemed to be peering at him particularly intently at this last sentence, and cleared his throat somewhat nervously. "You're wrong."

Voldemort laughed. "Are you willing to bet our future on that claim, Harry Potter? I have already told you once, we can go back to before this began. Back to the very, very start. When our fates were first entangled with one another, when our futures became one. And then you can see clearly just how much your life was orchestrated by those who would call themselves your friends."

"I don't understand what you're trying to offer me," Harry admitted.

"Simple. You need only give your agreement, and we'll. . ." Voldemort waved a hand behind him, at a trolley car that pulled into the station as though summoned by him, "take a short trip, back through your life. Only this time, you'll be aware of what's going on, able to understand what your guardians truly plan for you."

Harry glanced between Voldemort's image, the trolley, and the tortured soul-fragment child beneath the bench. Reminding himself of its existence brought on acute nausea, and he barely avoided retching. His stomach writhed rebelliously, adrenaline and primal fear warring to control him.

"Of course, it does only work if you bring me along," Voldemort said, gesturing to the whimpering, terrible creature. "If you have no wish to live, no desire to see the truth, by all means, leave me to die and move on to your afterlife."

Harry swallowed hard, steeled his resolve, and reached out to the horrible thing. It clutched at him, its red fingers sharp as it dug them into his arm, climbing weakly and desperately up him, feet scrambling and clawing at his side to gain purchase.

Harry had a sudden urge to fling the thing away from him violently, felt violated and assaulted by its presence. As it crawled painfully up to cling to his side, hanging off his shoulder with its sharp hands and digging its feet into his back and stomach for support, Harry felt as though he was polluting himself just being in contact with it. It repulsed him, as though he'd chosen to carry a sculpture made of dung. But worse. A thousand times worse.

"Only as far as the trolley," Voldemort instructed. "That's all you need to do. Step inside, and say you wish to go back through your life."

Harry probably should have stopped to consider just what he was doing, but he was so desperate to be rid of the wretched creature clinging to him that he stepped hastily to the trolley without delay. As Voldemort faded away behind him, Harry saw a familiar form standing by the trolley's steering panel.

"'ello, 'arry! Or is it still Neville?" Stan Shunpike asked.

"Are you dead too?" Harry asked. He shoved the clinging horcrux creature off him, onto an empty seat where it immediately curled up and resumed whimpering piteously.

"Yeah, well. . . y'know. Azkaban weren't good to me, and then all this happened."

Harry nodded sympathetically, glancing around the cozy and strangely clean trolley. "I'm supposed to tell you I want to go back to review my life," he said hesitantly. "That is possible?"

Stan chuckled. "'course it is, 'arry. 'aven't you 'eard, them what come back talk about their life flashin 'fore their eyes? It's that, like."

"Ah, yes," Harry said.

He still felt a bit awkward taking advice from Voldemort, and quite rattled from having actually touched the vile beast that was the result of murder and dark ritual. He shuddered and took a seat as far from it as possible, where he didn't have to see it.

"All the way?" Stan asked, hand on the forward lever.

"Sure," Harry said.

With a soft squeal, the trolley started off. Picking up speed rapidly, everything became paler and blurrier until Harry couldn't even make out his own hands in front of him.

Suddenly, Hagrid's voice boomed out all around them. "I'll be yer friend, 'arry Potter, whether you want it or no."

Harry blinked, and stood in the ruins of his parents home in Godric's Hollow. He stared at his mother's still form, his father's would still somewhere downstairs he guessed. And at Hagrid, looming over him even more gigantically than usual. He reached down, surprisingly gentle, and scooped Harry up in his big hands.

They moved down the stairs, past James lying still on the floor, and out the door. Hagrid seemed on the point of walking away, when a loud screech of brakes caused the giant wizard to spin round.

"Oh, 's just you, Sirius."

"I only just heard the news," replied Sirius Black, young and not yet affected by a decade spent in Azkaban, but still looking distraught and somewhat wild-eyed. "That's Harry? He's alright?"

Hagrid nodded, holding out Harry so Sirius could see. "Jus' a little scar, there, see? 'e'll be fine."

Sirius hesitated, glancing away into the darkness, then back at Hagrid and Harry. "I'll take him," he said. "I'm his godfather, I should be the one to look after him."

Hagrid pulled away a half step. "Sorry, Sirius, but I've got to take him to his family. Professor Dumbledore's orders, personally."

Sirius glowered, glancing out into the night. "It should have been me," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I should have stayed."

"There, there, nothin' ya could have done," Hagrid said. "If you-know-who was strong enough to break the spells Professor Dumbledore put on this 'ouse, there's nothin' yeh could've done."

"You're wrong," Sirius said, and he nodded sharply. "Right, there's something I need to take care of. Here, you can borrow my bike. Faster and safer than a broom, and big enough to manage you I wager. Keep Harry safe. That's the most important thing now, protect Harry."

"Aye," Hagrid replied. "No need to worry. He'll be safe wi' me."

"I'll be back for him," Sirus said, pausing to turn back. "I'll not let him grow up with muggles, Hagrid. Whatever Professor Dumbledore says."

"Yeh'll have teh take it up with 'im, then," Hagrid said. "I've got me orders and I'm followin' 'em to the letter."

"I'll be back," Sirius said, more quietly. A promise. He turned and strode away, firmly, but Harry detected an almost prowling feel to his movement and knew at once. Sirius was on the hunt.

Everything blurred again, time passing forward, and he lay mostly-asleep, dozing on a doorstep.

"These people are the worst sort of muggles," Minerva McGonagall was saying. "Are you sure we must leave him here? I'm sure any number of wizarding families would be glad to take him in."

"Yes, but there are still Death Eaters who would do anything to kill him. He is safest here. And, besides, he'll be so famous for something he'll never remember. Wouldn't it be best for him to grow up away from that until he's old enough to handle it?"

"I should think having it thrown upon him at any point would be a bit of a shock," McGonagall said.

"No, Minerva, trust me. This will be for the best." Albus Dumbledore leaned down, waved the Elder wand in a careful circle over Harry's basket. The air warmed, and Harry recognized the faintest shimmer of magic as a protective shield. "No one but his relatives will ever know he's here," he said, stepping back. "And you and I will not return here until the day he is to leave for Hogwarts."

McGonagall looked like she wanted to protest, but Albus took her arm and gently guided her outside the bounds of Number Four. With a click of his deluminator, the orbs of light returned to their lamps, and by the time Harry's mostly-closed eyes adjusted to the brightness, the witch and wizard were gone.

Petunia screamed, when she found Harry on her step, read the letter, paced and fluttered her hands anxiously, but did not consult with Vernon. Finally she gave a crisp nod, tossed the letter into the rubbish bin, and gave Harry a slice of the whole-grain bread that Dudley had declared he hated before hastily clearing out the closet under the stairs and moving in various baby things which Dudley had outgrown.

Harry didn't want to watch his mundane life, growing up on rejects and broken or ill-fitting hand-me-downs. The blur passed forward, to the day he got his letter, to the day Hagrid appeared, to Diagon Alley and obtaining Hedwig. The sight of his owl, so much younger and clearly full of life, brought a surprising pang to his heart.

Hagrid carried on a while about how great Dumbledore was, and how evil Slytherins were, and then Harry met the ponce Draco in the clothing shop and had Hagrid's words cemented as fact. There was no question after that, he would not become a Slytherin under any circumstances.

He wondered at how easily his younger self had been turned aside, but his adult self would not have chosen any differently. He was a Gryffindor and proud of it. The house of serpents held no charm for him, no siren call, no secret desire. He'd seen their common room, dull and watery and cold. He'd seen their attitudes. Nothing would convince him he belonged there, whatever Voldemort said was wrong.

"Oh? Is that really how you feel?"

Harry spun around. Suddenly, between him and the misty surroundings of the past, stood Voldemort. This time, though, it was neither the current resurrected Voldemort nor the younger Tom Riddle. This was an older Voldemort, but one less impacted by dark magics then Harry had yet seen him.

"You'll never be able to convince me otherwise, Tom," Harry said, quite firmly. "I've seen your so-called evidence, it won't persuade me of anything."

"Oh, I never expected it to convince you, Harry Potter."

Voldemort was smiling, in a particularly sinister way. It made Harry distinctly nervous.

"Then what is the point of this," he asked, "if you aren't trying to persuade me of anything?"

"To get access to your memories, of course, you foolish boy. Now I'll know what to do, how to act, and who to wreak vengeance upon."

"What nonsense are you going on about this time?" Harry asked.

"Oh, you'll know soon enough. Or rather…" Voldemort lunged forward, and Harry's entire body felt aflame. Like when his scar burned at the worst of times, but all-encompassing.

And then, he was gone.

* * *

 _Notes : _

_I have long wanted to do a proper Dark!Harry story which would make sense rather than just being a mockery of Harry's character. This is one of the ways I envisioned to do it. Have his trusting, compassionate nature become his downfall, his willingness to follow in Dumbledore's footsteps and offer everyone a second chance._


	4. The Serpent (2 of 2)

Unfinished Beginnings

* * *

 **The Serpent**

(2 of 2)

 _A Dark!Harry AU_

* * *

Harry Potter was not a normal child. He was a prodigy at magic, particularly Dark magic, and had a vengeful streak as wide as the Nile. When Draco Malfoy insulted him one day for associating with Ron Weasley, Harry stood up, spat in his face, and cast a Dark banishing charm which put Draco in the hospital wing for three weeks.

When Hermione Granger tried to outdo him at classwork, Harry spent every free moment visibly napping - during class, during free time, and even during dinner - and then proceeded to get perfect scores on every test he took that period. Hermione began researching time travel. Harry laughed in her face and called her a sore loser.

When halfway through his first year a Basilisk started terrorizing the school, he gathered a small army of all the school's muggleborn and promised to protect them. For nearly two months they traveled in a pack, even the older ones, Harry nearly always at their lead. But then he mysteriously was nowhere to be found on the day when the entire group was ambushed in a second-floor corridor and killed by the basilisk.

Professor Quirrell was eventually blamed, and died shortly thereafter rather than submit to questioning about his doings. The basilisk never re-emerged, but the muggleborn population of Britain had been cripplingly devastated. Harry was never suggested to be involved, not openly, but some of the cleverer Slytherins began to wonder.

By the time third year arrived, Harry signed up for every elective except Muggle Studies and insisted he didn't need a time turner. He merely skipped any classes that interfered with each others' schedules once or twice a week - and sometimes when he didn't need to, but thought he'd rather do something other than attend class. This inclination made no difference to his scores, which were consistently perfect. He never had to redo or practice a spell, perfecting each with a few minutes of studied concentration, then perfect pronunciation and wandwork.

It got to the point where many of the teachers whispered that he was the next incarnation of Merlin, or that he was clearly the sort of once-in-a-thousand-years prodigy who would reshape the magical world.

Albus Dumbledore had a different opinion. He studied the boy very closely, watched him, kept him under observation, and noted a worrying trend toward solitary pursuits. A predilection for treating those around him as though they had no inherent value beyond what benefit they could offer him.

He had survived a mysterious attack from a group of unconvicted Voldemort supporters during second year, dueled Sirius Black to the death in his third, and tended to mysteriously vanish from the Dursleys' house for a few hours any time Dumbledore or his agents approached the place.

Something was not right with Harry Potter.

Just how much wrong, no one was likely to discover. For Harry was still the same boy, underneath it all. The same man who had walked to his own death, the same man who had chosen through force of will to offer aid to his defeated foe and willing to give him a second chance.

Unfortunately, not everyone who is offered a second chance deserves it.

In this case, Voldemort took advantage of Harry's good nature, and his offer of a second chance, to integrate the fractured piece of his soul firmly into Harry's psyche. While Harry would not realize for many years just _why_ he was doing the things he was, there was a very simple explanation for every one of his actions.

He was not himself. Not always.

He wasn't Voldemort either; let that be made perfectly clear. This isn't a case of possession, or of usurpation, or even of sharing. But of synthesis. Harry Potter, with all his nobility and love and sacrifice, in a taught amalgam with Tom Riddle and all his self-serving, murderous ways. The horcrux, though, had much more experience living as a fractured soul; young Harry, however much the war had matured him, was unprepared for the sensation of stretching distortion that overwhelmed him the moment he entered into contact with the fragment of Voldemort's soul.

It was a complete entity, for souls are not like a pie which can be sliced into pieces. More like an internet connection, if each fragment is a server trying to draw at full load. The primary and dominant soul piece retains active control of the connection, but everything slows down.

It's not a perfect analogy; souls aren't really like an internet connection after all, but it may help to visualize the strain that poor Harry lived with. Someone else was drawing on that power, constantly pulling. And, because his soul fragment had never been properly sealed, instead of it being a passive and ignorable strain, the fragment within him was itself constantly straining to reunite with its master-shard.

Harry Potter could fix that.

One night, in the heart of winter, Harry slipped away to the forbidden forest with assorted books and instruments and artefacts. There, he enacted a Horcrux sealing ritual, sacrificing a mated pair of unicorns to fuel the magic.  
That was the end of his confusion and strain, the end of any hope for reversion. From that point onward, Harry and Voldemort were fused together as inseparably as was possible to become.

That did have the upside of his formerly erratic behavior leveling out to a sort of middle-ground average, but the downside of his behavior becoming decidedly Slytherin in practice. As his actions got more and more out of line, as he acted more and more like being the Chosen One of Prophecy granted him free reign to do anything and everything he desired, the fellow students learned to keep out of his way. The teachers were concerned: seemingly having nothing to teach him, why did he even bother to stay at Hogwarts? If he could learn just as easily from books as from teachers, why did he bother remaining?

But they certainly couldn't throw him out. It would be a political nightmare if the boy-who-lived ended up going to Durmstrang or America to gain his formal education. The Ministry put not-so-subtle pressure on Hogwarts to maintain the status quo - just let the boy be, watch and teach as best you can, but don't give him any reason to go elsewhere.

They need not have worried; to both Tom Riddle and Harry Potter, Hogwarts was the only true home they'd ever known. Neither would choose to abandon the castle, and thus their amalgam had that one thing in perfect agreement. Stay at Hogwarts as long as possible, and don't go too far because being kicked out would be disastrous.

Disastrous to what, exactly, was never clear. They had disparate goals, and their fusion had done nothing to clarify the matter. They could probably have come to an agreement, a compromise, had either retained enough sense of self to do so, but by then it was too late. They'd escaped the pull of Voldemort, only to trap themselves in this endless uncertainty. Loyal, uncaring. Straightforward, cunning and underhanded. Friendly, cold. Opposites, smoothed toward balance but never quite perfectly combined.

Perhaps in time they could find a common ground. Perhaps their fused selves would one day be a perfect conglomerate. But, for the moment, they were the volatile mix of angry dark Lord, traumatized and confused teenager, and a young boy who had no idea what these two strangers were doing in his head.

There is little to anyone could do, by this point. Even if they had known to try, it would be an exercise in futility to disentangle original Harry from duplicate Harry from Voldemort.

So third year ended, and Harry departed – ostensibly to the Dursleys, for the last time. He never arrived. Within a month the home had been attacked by Death Eaters and number 4 Privet Dr was no more. If anyone suspected Harry's of wreaking havoc himself, he had any number of witnesses to his presence elsewhere at various times.

He'd become good acquaintances with Draco Malfoy, after firmly putting the lad in his place under Harry. He often visited the young Greengrass sisters, though he spent more time flirting with their mother than either of them despite his apparent youth, and of course one mustn't forget his frequent forays to the Burrow.

Ron's fortunes had experienced a significant upswing with his unexpected friendship with the rich and powerful Harry Potter. No longer the least of his brothers, Ron was the best dressed and best set up for future influence of his entire family. His ideology, formerly just a vague amalgam of what his parents had said and what he had decided he liked to agree with from the newspapers, had under Harry's tutelage matured into quite a strong pro-tradition pro-pureblood agenda which would serve him well in the ministry.

Longbottom, likewise, was one of Harry's frequent admirers and had been converted from the weak and cowardly boy he'd been during first year into a younger but still determined version of the fighter he would have become.

Hermione Granger, killed by the basilisk long ago and forgotten, was never mentioned nor thought of. She'd been a self-possessed and not particularly well-liked girl, a bit too eager to show off how much more she knew than anyone else. Whatever time may have done to round her out into a valued member of the team, that potential would never be realized.

Anyone not familiar with the people involved, first years for instance who were not up with the times, were frequently surprised by how much time Harry, Neville, and Ron spent in the company of Slytherins and Hufflepuffs, but it could easily be noted that those they chose surround themselves with good all lay claim to the title of pureblood.

The relative frequency and inclination of Ravenclaw to be half blood or Muggleborn may have been a factor in why so few of them were included in Harry's circle of followers, but an astute observer might consider that Harry had no desire to be scrutinized by someone from the house of intelligence.

What Harry did with his days, skipping half the classes and vanishing for hours at a time, very few actually knew. The Weasley twins had long since "misplaced" a certain map, and thus they were not privy to Harry's wanderings. Which frequently ended in the Chamber of Secrets, where far more than a simple snake had been concealed by the great founder.

* * *

Harry never reappeared that summer, until September 1st when he showed up Kings Cross station as if nothing untoward happened. He made no comment on the Dursleys' disappearance, and in fact seemed surprised to hear that their house had been blown up.

Fourth year began with the announcement of the long-awaited tri-Wizard tournament being held at Beauxbatons Academy in France. Students in the sixth and seventh year were given the option to transfer temporarily to that school in order to observe and participate in the festivities. Dumbledore stressed vehemently that no one under age 17 should put their name forth, but that those in the sixth and seventh year were technically permitted to do so.

Following this announcement, there was much lively debate between sixth and seventh years regarding who would be transferring for the tournament. Some were eager to jump at the chance to travel abroad, while others insisted that Hogwarts' magical education was second to none and it would be nigh unthinkable to leave during their NEWT years to attend a subpar school in France.

Harry and his cohort, for their part, seemed completely uninterested in the affair. Harry expressed mild surprise at the choice of school, commenting "I'd have thought Hogwarts would be the obvious choice," but otherwise they seemed to find the topic completely uninteresting. Draco and Neville had also taken to, like Harry, dropping out of class without explanation, but whatever they were doing instead of attending lectures, it was apparently working as all of them were in the top 10% of the class.

* * *

 _Notes :_

 _This particular story just kinda fell apart there, and I never bothered to figure out where to go next. If I did, probably very little of this chapter would survive editing; it's too narration-y and not personal enough. Still, I do like the concept, even if the execution leaves something to be desired._


	5. Who Chooses The Wizard

Unfinished Beginnings

* * *

 **Who Chooses The Wizard**

 _Mrs. Norris PoV_

* * *

They just didn't get it.

My master waved his stick around, calling out nonsense and crying alone when he failed to produce the effect he wanted. I sat by his feet and tried not to fall asleep. I did yawn, repeatedly.

But I wouldn't abandon him when he needed me.

My tail flicked irritably, his obsession with the silly wood thing was becoming insulting. I'd been with him the whole time, since he was a child, and still he didn't understand? People can be so dense sometimes.

A whisper, a mutter of distant voices, and I sat up. I turned toward the hall outside, my ears swiveling to catch the words. Young voices. Student voices. _At night_.

I stretched and informed my master I'd be hunting. He quickly dried his tears, shoving his stick and papers into a drawer.

"I'll be right along, my sweet," he said, rubbing at his face with his handkerchief. It was an old and stained thing, matching his decor, but that's just how he likes things. Worn, used, _real_. He appreciated order and tidiness as much as the next person, but also had an innate appreciation for things other wizards consider rubbish.

A respectable quality, making one's own decision on value and not bending for the world.

I slunk out through the crack in the door, listening for the quiet voices of rulebreakers. They were being more careful now, they knew they were near my territory.

They wouldn't escape justice this time. My master would be coming, and I would be sure that they couldn't escape him.

"It's that stupid cat! Run!"

I hissed, spat at the insult. I'd been attending this school for over fifty years now, I knew more about life than they ever would. Their insult was offensive.

I sprang into a run, my master's power smoothing the aches from my joints and keeping my tired limbs strong and capable. I can't even remember what it felt like to hunt for myself, without my master's comforting presence. Without his strength supplementing my own. Without his energy guiding my path. Even the mice who try to sneak into the castle are no match for the gifts my master bestows on me daily.

He didn't understand. Some days I felt he might, deep down, but then he always went back to his papers and his stick and seems so sad not to be _mundane_ like the rest. Why wouldn't he understand that I chose him for his _strength_? I would never have gone to any of the lesser people who frequent this place. He's so much more special than them, but allows his jealousy to override his instincts.

"Quick, into this hall, the door has a lock!"

I darted past the door, already swung most of the way closed, and continued on. I knew an alternate way into that corridor, but it wasn't close. I'd lose time, and they could go any of three directions at its intersection. I ran.

Slipping behind a floor-length tapestry of my noble great-ancestor Saffron and her master, depicting their battle with the seven-headed chimaera abomination, I hurried through the secret tunnel - house-elf sized, so plenty big enough for me - and arrived at the far end of the hall.

They'd turned off, but their footsteps were fast and careless, their breathing loud with fear.

They knew I had them cornered.

I slunk after them, silent as a ghost, knowing my master wouldn't be far behind.

* * *

 _Author's Notes:_

 _I've always liked the idea of squibs being something other than simply an inverted muggleborn, and the idea of them being actually familiar-class wizards whose power was channeled through their animal companions appeals to me greatly. Filch's bond with Mrs. Norris is an ideal way to demonstrate this concept. However, as much as I love the concept, this story never got off the ground._


End file.
